


Company.

by kheelwithit



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: M/M, actually lots of incomplete porn and semierotica., alibaba is homesick, and enamoured desperately with Ja'far., and horny, and in love with a wall, expect lots of alija, idk where this came from, its comin' fam., or if it's going., or where its going, tryna get back on my feet.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kheelwithit/pseuds/kheelwithit





	Company.

Ja’far eats lightly always, blandly always.   
The food on his plate is determined only by what the cooks have leftover-- scraps, if you may, predisposed to running through notes on this and that and signing the last of Sinbad’s, Sharrkan’s, Pisti’s and everyone else's reports with a piece of bread he brings to his lips now and again to placate everyone’s nagging, though he won’t let them get any closer than that, cutting death glares, sometimes straight out cutting, to the unwise who press further.   
Alibaba notices this, from his place on the far end of the table, between Morgiana and his Master, who is already drinking, nevermind that they’ve just finished appetizers and later, when he can’t sleep, throat thick with thoughts that bring up a homesickness that Sindria usually stifles. Homesickness is something that Alibaba’s never really had since coming here. Sure, Aladdin told him there was something strange about this place, but only now, when Alibaba’s shaken awake in his bed by an ache that bothers him because this is not the air he loves, though he likes it-- the salt breeze isn’t the same, the- the-   
There is something of this place wholly that is not his home and only now does it hurt him. 

The ache is deep as bone and it sinks upon him so fully so that he cannot stay in his bed one single second longer. Alibaba flips light downy sheets and comforters off of him and exits his Prince Suite, which as lovely as it in it’s silk splendor, lit with incense and oil lamps, doesn’t compare to his simple room in the slums, where silk was roughly hewn carpet and the smells were dirt and the sweat and stench of cities and labor and garbage. 

Alibaba has been around the palace at night, it’s inevitable with how much he and his Master come home late and stumbling from drinking. He however, does not remember why he never noticed the moon shows bright enough to shine, not just glow or why he never noticed that the hallways all look the same; there isn’t a single tapestry like there is at home, hanging on the walls so that people might have something different to look at besides beautifully mosaicked floors and tall, lime washed walls. 

The differences prompt a game, the goal to find them all and they are numerous. The soft, sore sadness increases with every point he earns, but Alibaba finds himself looking for it, no matter how he hates it. He’s a little lost in himself and in the buzz of the night that Sindria makes, a city that doesn’t quite sleep, but seems to respect those who want to by toning it down, replacing clattering baazars and markets and hawking women and drinking men with crickets and whispers and running water and something that tinkles faintly. 

There is a wall, that he sees, rounding a corner that is most unusual, as is the palpitation Alibaba’s heart makes when he sees it.   
There’s no reason for it, really, it’s just a bit of jaali art to block off visitors from outside of the palace into this particular part, though it is beautiful in it’s complexity. Geometric and spiraling, though there’s naught but octagons, hexagons, squares, triangles all interlocked. He’s got his fingers on it before he knows it, his thumbs hooking around the edge of a shape and there might be a kind of beauty in the way the moonlight shines down on his fingers and regardless of if there is or isn’t, he is caught by it.  
Sindria’s spell has fallen on him again and he can only appreciate this place for what it is in it’s entirety, without comparing this or that or thinking at all and there is only the hum of the city, the shine of the moon and the jaali art that makes such shadows on his arm and down the ha--

There is something else beautiful, Alibaba sees it, surely. He will never remember that thought and it will vanish with a thousand other thoughts with as much or less importance, but he does think that at the end of the hallway, shadowed with hypnotic patterns and lit by light like snow, Ja’far holding a lamp, his head tilted downwards and shoulders hunched over a doorknob that he locks with a click that this is something beautiful indeed.  
When the thought is gone, Alibaba is only left with the feeling that he should wish for something to capture the moment and even that fades when Ja’far, straightens his shoulders and tucks a key into his sash. 

“Good evening, Prince. You cannot sleep?” That his voice is thick is all that occupies his mind, it’s a faintly raspy, that hint of a rumble that makes his heart start again, race, really. It’s surely shame at being caught out so late, isn’t it?   
Isn’t it?

“Yes- I mean, no I couldn’t.” The lamplight flickers in Ja’far’s grey eyes, tints them coal black in the night, casts his skin a little golden until he steps closer silently. When he stops, Alibaba notices that his hands are stained with ink. His eyes do not move from Ja’far’s hands, large, but curled delicately around the handle of the lamp as he harries himself to spill the beans because there is something of Ja’far that makes him want to explain himself. 

“I ahh-- I think I’m a little homesick.” A wry little smile fits itself on Ja’far’s face and a the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes cast shadows on little brown freckles. Alibaba notices that he’s slouching again, he’s rarely seen that, but the sight of Ja’far in any sort of casual manner makes him feel strange, like seeing a wild rabbit relaxed, he feels privileged. 

“Isn’t it a little late for that? You’ve been here for some time. Suppose nothing can quite beat home.” Alibaba has never noticed so much, what it feels like for someone to look through you. And never has he thought it could be possible to seem to look at your own past and at the past of the person in front of you. It’s so unnerving that his own hands fidget, fingering each other and he can’t really look anymore, at any part of Ja’far and he looks at the tile at the far end of the hall, the marine that glimmers like the jewel on Ja’far’s forehead. 

“Perhaps you’d like some company. It’s the best cure,” It’s very clear that it’s not really an option, though it is. A juxtaposition of the social variety. Ja’far sets off, back to the main palace and away from this place with it’s beauty, real or imagined, towards the kitchens.  
“along with midnight snacks.” 

Ja’far has granted him company, but company is not conversation. The walking is peaceful, probably, for Ja’far who finds very little disturbing as long as it is quiet, but Alibaba feels awkward. Ja’far’s robes don’t even whisper, but Alibaba’s shoes tap quietly on the floor and he bites his lip and it feels like every thump of his heart is too loud because everything else is too quiet, yet he feels that he should not say anything and so he doesn’t. The kitchen door is opened with a groan of wood that Alibaba wants to echo, from both the relief and the anticipation of something tasty and perhaps, now and finally, conversation. Ja’far holds it open for him, his forearm exposed so that Alibaba can see the fine hairs that only shine in the moonlight, see the strength that’s rarely used, see even more inkstains smeared about the inside of his wrist. He doesn’t notice at all that he’s doing something a little like gaping at Ja’far holding open a door.   
Exactly that, really. 

“Well? Will you go?” Alibaba starts again at that voice, the rasp that’s there in the whisper, though the rumble that makes his heart double over seems to have faded. His heart, however, does not stop doubling over in the least. 

“I will, sorry, just a bit tired.” And Alibaba does go, feeling meek, like a wilting maiden and he keeps his eyes wide and unblinking, on Ja’far who smiles knowingly and secretly and Alibaba knows ashamedly that Ja’far is not smiling because he knows his fatigue.   
Alibaba hoped he wouldn’t have been so obvious and now, as Ja’far unties his sash like there is nothing wrong or different, Alibaba hopes they will keep the silence as Ja’far puts his sash over his forearm and the lamp on a countertop and lights the others, like he’s only just remembered that he, nor Alibaba can’t really see in the dark. He can’t stop watching Ja’far, the new freckles that he can catch glimpses of as his robe slides down around his elbows, down his arms, corded with muscle that’s too great to be called lithe, can’t stop watching that little sash be set on neatly on the back of a chair with long fingers and a careful touch. Can’t stop watching the curve of Ja’far’s back as he rolls his shoulders and pulls the robe all the way off, folding it and setting it down with the same care that he did the sash. 

Alibaba has a thought that he will not forget and it is that he wants Ja’far to touch him so carefully and like he can sense it, the man turns to Alibaba, looks him up and down again and with that same knowing smile-- 

“It wouldn’t do to get my robes messy, now would it?’” and for a second, there is a double entendre in those words and Alibaba does not think Ja’far knows what he’s done and he damns himself for being so recklessly not in control of himself and for the way something warm coils in his belly at the things that could be done to make those pristine clothes dirty. For a moment, he is simply studied with that same unrelenting scrutiny and he feels bare under it again, it’s a little annoying because he knows that he can’t do anything like that in return. Ja’far chuckles as he looks at Alibaba over his shoulder before he turns back and shakes his head and Alibaba’s annoyance melts away like butter over a fire because without his keffiyeh, Ja’far’s hair moves like feathers do.

Alibaba feels it’d be best, really, if he just took a seat in another chair by the table in the corner and put his head down and tried not to just burst into flames from the feeling of being not only caught, but laughed at and he thinks, now that he can focus without double entendres in the way, teased. 

Alibaba does just what he thinks he should. But he cannot seem to stop looking at Ja’far, which is the story of Alibaba’s romantic life. 

Ja’far comes to the table with two loaves of bread and a bottle of olive oil and a little plate and Alibaba wonders when Ja’far noticed how he liked eating bread of all things. The thought that maybe-- maybe Ja’far has watched him, at least the tiny bit, makes something inside gasp like it's been suffocated and Alibaba tries to stop the desire, he does because there is a danger in reading too much into things.

Alibaba watches from the cracks between his fingers as Ja’far pulls back his own chair with his foot and sits heavily. Alibaba notices that he sits with his legs spread so widely and that, of all things, reminds Alibaba distinctly that he is a man and he comes to know he must look shy, his legs crossed tightly at the ankle. He takes his bread quietly and silence, still, hovers over them, though now Alibaba is okay with it, maybe as he tears his bread meticulously, trying to get it exactly in thirds out of some silly, sad habit and Ja’far politely pours olive oil in a perfect circle in the porcelain dish, his thumb pressing over the top of the bottle. before ripping off a much smaller part of his own and the way he delicately places it on his tongue, the way he licks the olive oil off of his thumb, it does not go amiss. 

“Playing with your food, are you?” Alibaba laughs and his perfectly split pieces of bread get a thoughtful look from the both of them.

“It’s a habit. I used to have to split up food a lot when I was a kid.” Alibaba leaves out their names, for the sake of the nice peace over them and dips a piece in the little dish. Ja’far blinks at him and there is somehow, definitely a meaning in it. An acknowledgement of a kind. He expects the homesickness to come back again and the grief to follow in a wave, but the grief is a quiet shadow behind him, and the homesickness is a twinge.   
Company is indeed the best cure, it’d seem. And with that, Alibaba puts his piece of bread into his mouth.

That there’s something not quite right doesn’t strike him until he swallows, too much time in the slums has taught him that food is fundamentally good, that unless it’s covered in mold or slime, it’s fine. Ja’far, though, despite all of his time in arguably the finest palace in the world and still, he cannot notice such a thing? And then he can only split his bread into smaller pieces, trying to look pensive without looking faintly bewildered. To say something might be taken as spoiled, which Alibaba would sooner be thrown into the ocean than be seen as. The palace may be filled aplenty, but he has never forgotten that he is a guest, of course. To not say something, would be to let Ja’far go on when something is clearly wrong, perhaps this is one of those times that Sinbad complains about so often, when Ja’far goes days upon days and days without sleep, eating nothing and needs to be taken to the infirmary for his health.  
Alibaba’s stomach knots with nerves and he finds that Ja’far’s failing health does not pale in comparison to being thrown into the sea. No, it makes being thrown into the sea seem like an unfortunate bee sting, though that might be just that Sinbad’s already done that and he’s beat the sea monsters into a respect for him.   
“Are-- are you alright, Ja’far?” Ja’far’s eyebrow quirks up.  
“I- you- you’re ah-- Ja’far, you’re eating stale bread.” His lips turn downward and his other eyebrow raises as he turns the bread about, sniffs it briefly.   
“Am I now?”   
Alibaba’s shoulders tense and he’s preparing himself, mentally, to wake up the least threatening General to take Ja’far to the infirmary-- no matter how he might like to be, he just is not prepared to convince Ja’far to get to the hospital wing, which has been told to be a battle comparable to a dungeon’s test, which he has not beaten into a respect for him and so is still very scared of. Ja’far’s teeth are perfect, except for one of his canines, which is tilted inwards, ridiculously sharp as it tears through bread. Alibaba swallows.  
“When was the last time you ah-- you slept?”   
“Oh dear no, no I’m not sick,” Ja’far takes another bite and Alibaba watches him rest his cheek, on the heel of his hand. “I just can’t taste most of anything.” 

Alibaba isn’t charming, maybe, when his jaw falls open. The second he realizes that, his jaw shuts. There are words, somewhere, for the conglomeration of confusion, shock and whatever else there might be in the way that makes his chest hurt and his hands tremble to undo it and give Ja’far back something as big as taste-- something that he can’t put into words either and the inability to do it just adds frustration that seems to pile on and on until a huff of air comes out that is all at once everything he wants to say and absolutely none of it. Ja’far does not seem to understand and Alibaba wishes that he could try again because the distance between them is something he wants to close. 

“I-- whaa?” And third time might have been the charm, but Alibaba is too embarrassed by his failures. Ja’far tilts his head up a fraction. Alibaba thinks it must be warm, Ja’far’s neck. It’s a stupid thought, but it exists in such clarity that you’d think it was more important.   
“Being an assassin means you have to build immunity to a lot of things, you know,” Alibaba’s not sure when his other two pieces of bread were nicked, but sure enough, they’re in Ja’far’s hands and then he’s getting up and throwing them out. Alibaba does feel spoiled, to have had perfectly good bread thrown out because of him. “and the way to do that is usually by drinking poisons and things.” In lieu of the discarded bread, Ja’far searches for something else inside cabinets that he throws open with familiarity that makes Alibaba wonder if he is used to being in these kitchens.   
“And that usually means that you can’t taste much of anything afterwards, not unless it’s very heavily flavored.” 

Ding.   
It’s an actual conscious thought, the little noise that echoes through your head, honest to god. What comes after it, you don’t exactly know but you’ve got enough experience with the few good ideas that ever shoot through your head to know to be content to semi consciousness of whatever the heck this is and just roll with what feels best.

“M-may I?” Unfortunately what feels best will force you, yet again, into an awkward social position as well as physical one. You’re sort of half standing in your chair, with your offer that you don’t even know stuck in the back of your throat and it’s not the coolest thing you’ve ever done, but it’s not the worst, so you can kinda live with it.   
Ja’far doesn’t really even glance over his shoulder, sort of balances a brown burlap bag off of a top shelf over it instead and hums noncommittally while closing the cabinets. You’re not really sure about Sindria and it’s attitude towards households and kitchens. In Balbadd, coming in someone’s kitchen with the intent to do anything more than sit quietly and help when needed requires permission, though and you will follow what you know best until you know better.   
“What you intend to do is lost on me, Alibaba, but like always, odds are that Sindria will allow it with grace. Honestly, you should really just let yourself be a guest, you know. We do want you here.”  
“Ah, Ja’far? I don’t mean to cause trouble, but you should put the bread up. I’ll be cooking for you, I think.” you say as you give up your awkward quarter squat position before your legs give right out.   
That does warrant a look over the shoulder. The comment, not the quarter squat. Steely grey eyes look right at you and you’re pinned like a fly in a spider’s web. Nonetheless, you cannot be afraid and unnerved by it, not this time. Very little causes Ja’far to take notice and there’s a little pool of pride gathering in your belly that you’ve done it, especially since you’re just as shocked as Ja’far is that you’ll be cooking in Sindria’s kitchens. You appreciate this look of suspicion he grants you and remember the way that his eyelashes are darker than any of his other hair and see there is no variant, no pattern in his eyes, only stark greyness.   
Ja’far carefully, without taking his eyes off of you, who is trying to wrestle your lips out of a little painfully earnest smile, opens the wooden cabinet again and puts up the sack of bread with nary a sound.   
The sound of the cabinet closing is covered with his sigh and Ja’far’s ink stained hands curl around the edge of the counters as he leans against it, the back of his head tapping the wood of the cabinet above it while he looks to the ceiling and you look at the five freckles that line the left side of his neck perfectly.  
“All right, then. If you’re sure.” Ja’far crosses his arms and you can see just how much muscle he has on you and you don’t think you’d mind feeling tiny underneath this man.

Around. You meant around.  
Ja’far doesn’t say anything about your red face, but that secretive smile comes back and you figure fuck it, underneath is exactly what you want.


End file.
